


The Return

by FossilizedGrablin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Drama, Feanorians being unhelpful dicks, Fingon is overwhelmed, Flashback Chapter, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Gore, Mutilation, Russingon is implied but that's not what this fic is about, eagles being helpful dicks, fingon rescues maedhros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-07 01:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13424217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FossilizedGrablin/pseuds/FossilizedGrablin
Summary: Fingon rescues Maedhros from Thangorodrim and deals with family drama. He just got off the grinding ice, but we can't have nice things in the Silmarillion. At least he gets his bf back. Or most of him. You know.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This is... still a KIND OF rough draft but I like it so far? And there's gonna be more, what have I done. Anyway, it's not finished, I just wanted to post something.  
> Warnings/tags may change in the future.

“Findekáno, if you don’t c-cut my throat with that knife, I’m g-going to k-”

The words were lost in a violent shiver. The threat was almost horrifically comical. Maedhros was so emaciated and battered, he probably didn’t have the strength to kill a gnat. 

“I’m not leaving you here,” Fingon snapped. Despite the frigid air, sweat was beading on his temples. He had tried everything to free his cousin from the cruel iron keeping him suspended on the cliffside, but time was running short and he didn’t know how long the eagle would tarry. “My prayers have been answered and I’m not going to squander it. I’m so sorry, Nelyo, forgive me for this…” Fingon’s hunting knife was large enough to do what he needed it to. He gritted his teeth and sent up one last silent prayer that the eagle would catch them as they fell. Then, wrapping one arm around Maedhros’s rail thin form, he began to saw through the manacled wrist with every ounce of his strength. Maedhros didn’t even scream as his hand was severed, as they dropped, as the eagle was true to its word and caught them in its giant talons. Fingon realized, once they had been set gently and safely on the ground, that it was because he had fainted.

Dark blood dribbled from the severed stump and Fingon immediately set to work trying to staunch it, now using his bloody knife to tear strips from his cloak. There wasn’t nearly as much blood as there should have been. How long had he been hanging there? He bound the wound as tightly as he could, and then took off his now-tattered cloak and threw it around what remained of Maedhros. He wore plenty of layers besides and he didn’t need the cloak that badly. He didn’t look too closely at the awful scars that were crosshatched over Maedhros’s entire body, couldn’t look at them. His once long and beautiful copper hair had been crudely cut, and his skin had faded to a dull grey as if the light of his fëa had gone out. His face alone was savagely scared and sunken. Fingon hugged him close for just a moment, hardly believing that he had him in his arms again. 

But he couldn’t waste time. Fingon could see blood soaking through the strips of his cloak and there was no telling if they had been noticed by the enemy yet or not. The uneasy presence of the eagle was small comfort. 

Somehow, with the eagle’s cooperation, Fingon managed to get them both settled on the creature’s back. Fingon finally felt the muscles in his neck unstiffen when he turned and saw Thangorodrim growing smaller and smaller in the distance. 

He let out a breath of laughter, suddenly revelling in the realization of his success. Not only had he found his cousin, the lost high king of the Noldor, he had found him alive, and he had snatched him right out of the enemy’s hands. 

Alive, yes, he thought more grimly, but in such condition. And permanently maimed. Fingon may have stolen Maedhros from Angband, but he hadn’t managed to get away with all of him. It had been his right hand. His sword-hand. The hand that he had used to compose letters and sketch drawings. Fingon swallowed. It was that or leave him behind, dead. “I’d much rather take your hand than your life,” he murmured to the unconscious heap under his arm. “You’ll just have to live with that.”

Fingon felt Maedhros stir beneath him. 

“W-where…” His voice was hoarse and unsteady. Fingon could barely hear him over the roar of the wind. 

“You’re safe, Nelyo, just keep still, alright? I’ve got you, you’re safe.” He had to raise his own voice to be audible. 

“What?” The fear and confusion in his tone was palpable. He didn’t understand. Or perhaps he just hadn’t heard him. 

Fingon had always wanted to fly but all things considered, he would be much happier once they had landed safely at Mithrim’s shores. Maedhros seemed to be making a feeble attempt at wriggling out from under his arm. Fingon didn’t relinquish his hold

“Stay still, my love. We’re thousands of feet in the air and you’re bleeding.”

“We’re what? Is…” there was something of a garbled noise. “...Eagle?”

Fingon gave an anxious chuckle in spite of himself. “Can you believe it.”

“No!”

“That’s alright, Nelyo, all in good time. You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m going to Mandos.”

“The eagle is from Manwe, not Mandos.”   


“Worse!”

_ How Fëanorians never tire of testing the boundaries of patience _ , came the great eagle’s voice through Fingon’s mind. Fingon thought he felt Maedhros twitch beneath him. 

_ He’s delirious, great one _ , Fingon plead with his own thoughts. _ I beg your forbearance _ .

_ It is not  _ my _ forbearance you need beg for _ . 

Fingon decided the most prudent thing to do would be to say as little as possible. Not something at which he was particularly astute, but he could employ common sense when he needed to. 

Maedhros was moaning softly and uttering slurred curses intermittently in both Quenya and some other, uglier tongue that made Fingon’s skin crawl.  

Fingon began to sing to him again, soft and low. It was one of their favorite songs from their youth that they would always sing together too loudly after they’d had too much to drink. They rarely ever finished it without dissolving into uproarious giggles, because Maedhros would always change the words around to something ridiculous. Fingon did the same now, but nobody laughed. Maedhros did curse even louder, added mangled bits of a second verse, and then resumed whimpering in pain. Fingon would take small victories as they came. 

Through dense fog and cloud, Fingon could barely perceive the bright colors of the tents by the silvery lake. The eagle said nothing when Fingon thanked it for its assistance, only lowered its great golden head slightly, and launched itself into the air, blasting Fingon and his charge with a gust of wind from its wings. Shouts went up from the camp as the enormous eagle was undoubtedly spotted soaring away. 

“Here!” Fingon called. “Here, I need help!”

His sister was the first to come darting out of the fog. 

“Finno, what-” She skidded to a halt when she saw Fingon coming toward her with what surely looked like a corpse on his shoulder. Her voice was soft at first, but then she sped off again, shouting, “Finno found him! Findekáno found him!”

“Thanks for the help, Írissë,” Fingon mumbled, dragging Maedhros toward the camp. But Fingon found himself completely surrounded by his people before he could draw another breath. 

Maedhros made another attempt at speech but only uttered a dry croak. 

“Get him water,” Fingon ordered, suddenly irate that everyone seemed more content to gawk than actually offer assistance. He stumbled into his tent, everyone following and crowding around him as he lay Maedhros on his cot as gently as he could. Fingon’s head shot up over the crowd. “Where are the healers? Where’s the water? Eru, look at him, he is dying!” 

Saying the words made him realize what panic he truly felt. Would Maedhros just fade on him after everything? It was possible. “Nelyo, please stay with us, alright? You’re safe. You’re safe! Everything is going to be alright. Stay with me!” 

The bruised eyes flickered open for just a moment, foggy and red. He kept a tight grip on Maedhros’s remaining hand and stroked a stray hair out of his face. Somebody thrust a waterskin at him. Maedhros, who had been limp and apparently weak thus far, snatched at the waterskin. He could barely keep a grip on it as he upended it, but Fingon held it steady for him. 

He choked and sputtered, coughing until tears coursed down his cheeks. That was when the healers finally stepped in. Now it was Fingon’s turn to be scolded. They told him to please step back and let them do their work. Fingon did so, though he hated the way Maedhros looked at him one last time before he was out of a direct line of sight. What was that look? Confusion? Hate? Pleading? Fingon couldn’t ruminate on it because someone seized him by the arm and dragged him out of the tent. 

“What did you think you were doing? Look at me!”

Fingolfin was staring at him, gery-blue eyes wide in his pale face. 

“What I set out to do. And I did it. Let that be the end of it.” 

“Finno, what have you  _ done? _ ” And with that, Fingon was pulled into a crushing embrace. “I thought you were my sensible son! Don’t ever, ever do something like that again. Not alone. Do you understand? My heart couldn’t withstand it.”

Fingon nodded placatingly, or tried to as he could barely move his head. “It was a one-time venture, father, and look, I’ve succeeded.” He looked back over his shoulder at his tent.  _ I hope I’ve succeeded _ , he thought. 

“You’re alive. And somehow even Maitimo is alive. I don’t know how, but-”

“Atya, they left him chained to a cliff by the wrist. I found him just… Hanging there. I don’t know for how long. I couldn’t free him, I couldn’t break the chain or... “ tears welled in his eyes. “I had to take his whole hand off.” Fingon could feel himself breaking down now that adrenaline and urgency were subsiding. Fingolfin rested a gloved hand on his shoulder and drew him forward. Fingon felt like a child but was too tired to resist. He let his father walk him to his tent. 

“We need to contact Makalaurë at once,” Fingon said. “Or perhaps-”

“We shall. Come sit and have something to eat.”

Fingon didn’t protest, and found ignoring the thought of the Fëanorian encampment on the other side of the lake easier than he expected. They dined on grouse that Aredhel had caught earlier. Fingon all but inhaled his portion. He wondered if Maedhros had eaten. Could he eat?  _ Would _ he eat? He was so thin. Fingon had seen bodies ravaged by starvation in the ice desert. He himself was still all angles and ribs. But between the scars and the thinness and the faded bruises…

“Finno, why do you weep?”

“I’ve never seen that kind of cruelty,” he said, feeling the tears spill down his cheeks. “Maitimo doesn’t deserve that, I don’t care what he did!”

“He didn’t do as much as we thought,” said Fingolfin softly. 

Fingon looked up. 

“I spoke with Makalaurë after you left. Maitimo had no part in burning the ships. He was the only one to stand aside. He didn’t try to stop his father, but he defied him nonetheless.”

Fingon’s heart felt ready to burst. A part of him wanted to scream. In both vindication and in buried guilt for that small part of him that had doubted his friend.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years prior to the rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant this to only have two chapters. Then this entire chapter turned into a flashback. It's still a bit rough so bear with me, and stay tuned for more, kiddos

_ Three years ago _

A chill went down Fingon’s spine. For once it had not been brought on by the cold, but by sound of the wind howling through Thangorodrim’s peaks. It sounded too familiar. He brushed it off, angry at himself for still hearing Maedhros’s voice after spending thirty years freezing on the ice. 

Barely thawed from the Helcaraxë, Fingolfin was leading an assault on Angband. At the very foot of Thangorodrim, a cacophony of noise from the Noldorin warriors went up as they roared their challenge and beat their shields in rhythm, hungry for violence. But there was no answer save for the cry of the wind. Fingon could have sworn he heard it again; A raw, anguished scream for help. 

“Írissë,” he asked his sister quietly, “do you hear anything?”

She shook her head, her face fierce. “Nothing. The Dark One is craven.”

“It’s the nothing that worries me,” said Fingolfin, who was standing nearby. “Morgoth is crafty… I don’t like this.” 

“The wind,” Fingon said again, louder, but Fingolfin was already signalling to his banner-bearers nearby to begin moving out. Fingon shook his head. He’d had the wind howling in his ears for too long. It had gotten into his brain. 

“We will go southwest and seek out the Feanorians,” Fingolfin was saying to Finrod, who looked mildly uncomfortable with the notion. But he nodded anyway and began calling orders to his own people. Fingon was glad to be out from under Thangorodrim’s eerie shadow. He needed to see Maedhros face to face. And he needed answers.

As he often did, Fingon joined the handful of warriors who scouted ahead of the caravan. He had moved further ahead than the rest of the party, and soon found himself within sight of Mithrim’s shores.  

It was in a sudden thundering of hooves that he met a familiar face. Celegorm followed by his own party of scouts, were all mounted on horseback as they surrounded him. Tall, deceptively slender, and fair-haired, Celegorm always reminded Fingon of a large, pale ferret. He gazed down at him with silvery blue eyes.

“Oh,” he said. He somehow managed to seem startled and boredly contemptuous at the same time.  “I see the rumors are true. Long time, Finno. Here to see Nelyo?” 

“Yes, I do wish to speak to him.” Fingon wasn’t in the mood to waste words with Celegorm. 

“That’s unfortunate, because he is gone.”

Fingon sighed. “That’s fine. When will he return?” 

A strange look flickered over Celegorm’s face for just half a heartbeat. Then his eyes grew steely again. “Never, I expect,” he said. 

“What are you talking about, Tyelkormo? Cease with the crypticism, I beg of you.” The same dark unease that Fingon had felt at the gates of Angband was blooming larger in his mind. 

Celegorm shifted his weight in his saddle and looked impatient. “You wouldn’t have heard, would you. No. Our father the king was wounded and died. Maitimo got it into his head to call a truce with the Enemy. But of course,” his voice rose in volume ever so slightly, “they slaughtered his entire force and allegedly took him captive. I don’t know. We never found a corpse, but we did receive a lot of craven ransom notices.”

“He’s… Maitimo is…” Fingon felt the panic spreading. No, no,  _ no _ , he never wanted this. He had been angry and hurt, but this wasn’t right. He finally found his words. “When did this happen?”

“All of this came about not long after we landed, so it’s been at least thirty years at this point. I can hardly keep track anymore. Should have stayed behind, cousin. Beleriand is nasty business.” And without another word, Celegorm clicked at his horse and he and and the rest of his retainers galloped off toward the lake. Fingon didn’t respond or try to follow them. He needed to sit down. He couldn’t think, couldn’t process what he had heard. There was some mistake. Celegorm had lied to him, that was it. It wouldn’t be out of character for him. But he remembered the odd look on his face and the tone of his voice...   


It had to be a lie. Fëanor, dead? Fingon had always been somewhat terrified of his uncle. He was a force of nature with an almost maia-like intensity to his  _ fëa _ , and the thought of him just being… Gone… seemed nearly absurd. 

“My lord Findekáno!” He turned, finding that the other scouts had caught up with him. “Were those Fëanorians?” 

Fingon silently nodded. “They’re likely going to spread word of our arrival. Go and double back to the caravan… I may have…” He found his vision was suddenly blurring 

“My lord?”

“That was Tyelkormo, and he claims Fëanaro is dead and Maitimo was taken prisoner by Morgoth. I am going to find out more. Don’t speak of this to anyone but my father or lord Findaráto. I won’t be long.”

Celegorm was nowhere to be seen and no one tried to bar Fingon’s entry into the camp. Barely anyone met his eyes. Nobody questioned him when he asked to be shown to the high king’s tent. He felt as if he were moving through a dream.

Maglor was inside, bent over a small desk, twirling a quill pen in a long, white hand as he gazed forlornly down at a mess of parchments spread out over the table.

The guard announced Fingon’s presence. “Your forgiveness, my king. Lord Findekano Nolofinwion begs an audience with you.” 

“Of course he does,” said Maglor. “Thank you.” He sounded less than grateful to Fingon, but he remained silent as Maglor rose to his feet and crossed the tent to where he stood. The second eldest Fëanorian had always been thin and pale but he seemed even more so, now, the contrast heightened by the somber black robes he wore. “What can I do for you, cousin?” His lilting voice was as pleasing as ever, but it didn’t mask the tiredness beneath it. 

“I just want to know what happened.”

“Of course you do,” Maglor sighed. “What did Tyelkormo say to you?”   


“He told me that Fëanaro was slain not long after you landed… and that Maitimo attempted to treat with the Enemy, but that he was taken as a hostage? Is that correct?”

Maglor turned away from him. “It is,” he said, his voice bitter. “There was nothing we could do. The Dark Lord demanded that we forsake our Oath and move south or leave Beleriand entirely. Of course we could attempt to meet his demands, but he would only betray us as he did Maitimo. He would have slain him regardless of our actions.”

“My king,” Fingon began, as respectfully as he could, “ I know it was likely a hopeless situation, but… No rescue was even attempted? No bargaining, no negotiations…”

Maglor whirled on him, his face even whiter than ever. “Negotiations,” he hissed, “with the Enemy are why my brother is gone, Findekáno. And that’s just what he is. Gone. I cannot and will not repeat his mistakes. Every day I live with my choice, but it is the choice I had to make. I pray to Eru Allfather that you never have to face a similar decision, and I also pray to Eru that Maitimo is long-dead.”

Fingon stared at Maglor. “So you don’t know if he is or not.”

Maglor looked away again. “No,” he said weakly. “There’s no way to know either way, which is why it would be folly to try and go after him, Findekáno, do you not see?” He released a shuddering sigh and folded his arms. He seemed almost frail, but Fingon knew better. 

“How can you just… You wish for his death? Your own brother, Laurë, he loved you!”

Maglor’s lip curled. “You have only just arrived in this wasteland, Findekano, so I cannot expect you to know. I cannot expect you to have heard the same whispers and reports that I have been hearing for the past three decades about what goes on in that accursed place. About what they do to those of our kind so unlucky as to have been taken captive. Do not presume to act as if you are the only one who ever cared about Maitimo. The Halls are a better fate for him than life in the depths of Angband, I assure you.” He fell back and his voice softened. “The Dark One threatened his death if we did not comply with his demands, anyway. He is dead, Finno. I am sorry.”


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further drama with the Feanorians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing keeps getting longer and longer. I swear, once I finish it in its entirety I'll go back and give it a better edit or something. Otherwise I haven't added much new or original to the narrative? It's just there? 'Cause I wanted to write it? So yeah.

For nearly three years, Fingon told himself Maedhros was dead. He didn’t believe it, though. In his heart, he didn’t believe it and in his nightmares he still heard the screaming of the wind at Thangorodrim. 

The two Noldor camps continued to try and eek out an impoverished living on the shores of Mithrim, but tension between them became too great. Maglor had the good graces and sense to move his people to the southern shore, even though there was controversy over it. There was always controversy, Fingon thought wearily. He was so tired of it. 

Helping his father and Finrod maintain civility was at least a distraction from the gnawing uncertainty inside of him, even if it was a full-time frustration. He knew the Fëanorians, and as much as he didn’t care for some of them, he had always been on good terms with Maglor and Amras and even the taciturn Caranthir. However Maglor was stressed near to breaking from the constant tension and want. Caranthir could not be bothered with ado from either camp, declaring it all vain foolishness but doing very little to aid the situation. And Amras, now grown to adulthood, had become very distant since the last time Fingon had seen him. He hadn’t even recovered from the loss of his twin when he had lost his eldest brother soon after. Fingon noted that he had had no words of mourning for his father. 

Fingon wasn’t sure what drove him to finally set out for Thangorodrim again. Whether it was the constant threat of another kinslaying hanging over Mithrim like a second Doom, or the various grisly and sometimes obscene tales he had heard of Angband, or the all-too-vivid nightmares that plagued him as he slept. He couldn’t rest. 

Maedhros was dead, he had told himself. And he had betrayed him, besides. All this strife between his own people and the Fëanorians wouldn’t exist if the ships hadn’t been burnt. At least not to the extent that it did now, he thought morosely. Maglor didn’t care for the feud, but he made too many allowances for Celegorm and Curufin and their various supporters, who took any slight from Fingolfin or Finrod’s people as a near act of war. 

A strange sort of fury had overtaken Fingon. Even if Maedhros had abandoned him, so what? It didn’t mean he had to do the same. In the days before their friendship, Maedhros used to sigh and glare at him and call him a nuisance. Maedhros had been just as irritating, of course, and they had teased each other without mercy until they both realized they actually enjoyed each other’s company. _ I am a nuisance, Nelyo, _ Fingon thought, _ thus you won’t be getting away from me so easily. _

And so, armed to the teeth and carrying his harp for good measure, he had set out for Angband. 

And he had returned. They had both returned. 

 

* * *

 

“Alright, where is he?” 

“Tyelkormo, shut your fucking face for once in your life. Yes, Findekáno, we’ve heard. We just wished to confirm. Don’t look so startled.” 

“Our ears our long,” Celegorm added, unperturbed by Caranthir’s rebuke. 

“Probably because they never had to suffer frostbite,” Fingon said dryly, his glower moving from brother to brother. They both sat astride beautiful but slightly underfed Noldorin war horses and were followed by three mounted soldiers each. “Expecting a fight?” he asked. 

“Let’s dispense with the back and forth,” said Caranthir. “Do you have our brother or not?”

“Maitimo is safe, yes. For now. But he’s not well and the healers are trying to do something about it.”

“Our healers would do better,” said Celegorm. 

“We would like to see him,” said Caranthir. 

Fingon was conflicted. He wanted Maedhros to be reunited with his family, but his family had also abandoned him. But Caranthir was already dismounting his horse and Celegorm was doing the same. Fingon put a hand on his sword hilt. “I can go and ask if he will see you,” he said, keeping his voice even but low. “If he is awake. Leave your warriors outside the camp.” Celegorm looked livid but Caranthir clamped a hand on his shoulder. 

“Go ahead, Findekáno, we will wait.”

Fingon turned and made his way to his tent, where Maedhros still lay. He almost ran headlong into one of the healers as he was exiting the tent. “How is he?” Fingon asked softly.

“Faring poorly,” said Ortano, the healer. “He needs to sleep but he will not. He can’t keep food down. He has a bad fever as well. I will not give you untruths about the situation, my lord.”

Fingon’s heart fell a little. “May I see him?” 

Ortano nodded. “Perhaps a familiar face will do him some good. I think the poor thing is terrified, honestly. I have to go prepare more serum to help with the pain. He’s in a lot of it”   


Fingon caught himself bridling at his strong, charismatic Maitimo being referred to as “the poor thing,” but he remembered well how he had looked, so he said nothing as he moved past the healer into the tent. 

Maedhros was curled up on Fingon’s cot, under a heavy blanket, but he immediately sat up upon Fingon’s arrival. He visibly gasped as if the sudden motion had hurt him. He was cradling his maimed arm, which was tightly bound in a complicated sling of sorts, and he stared toward Fingon as if he were not actually seeing him. 

Fingon instantly knelt at his side. “Hush, dearest, lie back down. It’s alright-” He tried to gently ease him back down again but Maedhros recoiled at his touch, his muscles tensing and his eyes going wide. Fingon snatched his hands away, chagrined. He tried to reach out with his thoughts instead, giving Maedhros every reassurance that he was safe, but he was met with a wall of cold silence. 

“I’m sorry, Nelyo, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Eru, you’re burning up…” Even from the brief contact, Fingon could feel the heat radiating through Maedhros’s skin. He wondered if it were best to even mention that Celegorm and Caranthir were there.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. Maedhros still seemed dazed and disoriented. He blinked at Fingon, not quite meeting his gaze, and shook his head. 

“No, thank you.” His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper, and he seemed to tense again. 

“That’s alright, Nelyo. Lay down try to sleep, alright? I’ll be back to check on you as much as I can.” 

“ _ Ai _ , Oromë!” Fingon froze and whirled around to face Celegorm who had apparently followed him into the tent. Caranthir was hot on his heels, looking annoyed. His expression melted into shock, however, when his eyes fell on Maedhros. 

Fingon was about to lose all patience. “He is not well. Get out.” 

The two of them shot him a glare but Caranthir seized Celegorm’s arm and began to tug him out of the tent. They halted in their tracks, however, when a ragged voice called out to them. “Wait. Wait, Iet them stay.”

“You need rest,” Fingon protested, but he backed off, maintaining a dubious eye on Caranthir and Celegorm.

“Hello, Nelyo,” Caranthir said quietly, kneeling by the bed. 

“What happened to your hand?” Celegorm demanded, eyes darting to the bandaged stump in its sling. “How did Findekáno find you? What happened?” Fingon’s fists clenched as Maedhros seemed to shrink under the barrage of questions. But he looked up at Celegorm, thin shoulders ridged and eyes cold. “I lost the hand to the Enemy,” he said steadily. “Findekáno found me on one of the mountain cliffsides. Ask him about it. I am tired.”    
  
Fingon could barely suppress a smile. Caranthir shot Celegorm a look. “That’s fine,” he said to his elder brother. “We just wanted to see you for ourselves.”

“I know. I’m s-sorry.” Maedhros’s voice seemed to be growing weaker. “I missed… all of you…” He fell back onto his numerous pillows, his eyes closing. Caranthir stood, face lined with concern. 

“He does burn, I feel it from here.”

“It will be like  _ atar _ all over again,” Celegorm declared, silvery-blue eyes wide. 

“It will not,” Caranthir growled. “We should return to camp and inform Makalaurë.”

“As I was about to suggest, little brother. There’s no need for such a tone…” Without so much as another word to Fingon, they both trooped out of the tent. Fingon didn’t mind, he was just glad that they were gone. But he had to find his father and warn him of the  Fëanorian invasion that would likely soon occur.

“Finno…”

Had his voice been any softer, Fingon wouldn’t have heard him. He turned around, finding Maedhros still lying on his back, eyes barely open. 

“I didn’t tell them. About the hand. I won’t tell them. They’ll be asses about it.” 

Fingon smiled. “Thanks, Nelyo. I’ll take care of things, don’t worry.”

  
  



End file.
